


Help me deserve you

by howbadcanmyficsbe



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Seine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2020-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24390154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howbadcanmyficsbe/pseuds/howbadcanmyficsbe
Summary: It occurred to him then, that this was perhaps the only time in his memory that he had ever been told he was loved.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 4
Kudos: 94





	Help me deserve you

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "I Love You But I'm Lost" by Sharon Van Etten.
> 
> Thanks to Claire and Emm for helping with this one, boy did I need it. It's hard to write for obvious reasons right now :')

Through stuttered, quiet gasps and wandering hands, Valjean ducked his head into Javert’s collarbone, his lips ghosting across the taut skin there. The touch was soft, at the same time searing like a brand and warm like a cup of tea, his breath the puff of steam. His hands found Javert’s shoulder blades, kneading small circles into the muscles; Javert responded in kind, his fingers scratching lightly at the forgiving skin of Valjean’s lower back, below where the scars began to weave together. One of Valjean’s hands was traveling slowly down his spine, around his hip, and teasing under his cock and taking him in hand. It was all still so new, but Valjean’s attentions felt practiced now, stroking him with a somewhat newfound confidence; the sureness of it lit something in Javert’s core, and he let out a stifled groan. And then Valjean was speaking, low and emphatic in the crook of his neck.

“I love you.”

The words struck through him like a knife buried into his side, without warning, and his hands stalled. Javert was desperate not to let the knife’s poison course through him, but its progress was inevitable. A sinking feeling spread through his chest, pooled in his stomach, turning his blood to ice.

It was the first time, the only time, that Javert had heard those words fall from Valjean’s lips. Of course, he had heard such declarations of love, but solely to his daughter, one of the only creatures on earth that might be deserving of affection from Jean Valjean. This, though, was different, a separate kind of love, a much starker admission as Valjean’s hand was gently wrapped around his prick.

Was this not simply a physical release, a connection in a desperate need-induced fever? Did love occupy Valjean’s thoughts as they touched one another, shared a bed? Was it tenderness in his heart that made his skin shiver, that made him so rarely cry out and clamor to kiss Javert?

It occurred to him then, that this was perhaps the only time in his memory that he had ever been told he was loved.

Only when Valjean’s hand stopped palming his length did he notice the wet trails on his cheeks. He let out a shuddering breath, meaning to speak.

“Do not- do not stop,” Javert managed through stuttering gasps for air; his voice cracked treacherously. Valjean made no move to heed his request, and instead brought a hand to Javert’s jaw, cradling it, concern coating his every feature. The sight fanned the flames already burning his eyes, and tears began to fall more freely, too quickly for Valjean to wipe aside with his thumb.

Javert wanted to protest, wanted to urge Valjean again to continue before it registered that he had already grown soft while he shook like a fallen leaf. Valjean’s other hand now petted at his shoulder, hesitantly, as if asking permission to touch him further. He could feel his face crumple as he leaned his head into Valjean’s palm, closing his eyes, wishing that he would grip him with force rather than kindness. It burned, his touch, a pleasant sensation that at times turned excruciating. In that moment, in that single point of contact, it was like a needle mercilessly sinking into his skin.

An older, more intrinsic, part of Javert wanted for nothing but unthinking passion. It wanted to rut and snarl and be taken; there was no love, for it was something primal, inhuman flooding his veins as he gave himself to Valjean. Love had no part in it; love was a word too holy. He could not produce it, could not receive it, could not comprehend it. It pained him to know he was incapable of giving this to Valjean, and only hoped to find redemption in providing for him what meager physical pleasures he could. He hoped it would be enough, though he knew it not. This was surely not love, for love was between equals; to Javert, this was worship.

What could be more overwhelming then, for God to tell a man in no uncertain terms that he was loved? That God was suddenly a man, sins and all, who held love in His heart for a such a wretched thing? That this act, the way he was held, was not something animal but undoubtedly lovemaking?

Javert could feel himself wilting, deepening breaths turning into unsightly sobs as Valjean pulled his head into his arms. He could no longer see Valjean’s face, no longer gauge his reaction. Were his eyes wide with shock, or half-lidded with resignation? Could he understand any more clearly the tangle of thorns that seemed to block Javert’s throat, choking any hope of speech? He asked himself this, mute, as Valjean began to run soothing fingers through his hair, cradling him with a more gentle touch than he deserved.

“I-“

“Do not apologize,” Javert managed, strangled as it was against Valjean’s chest. He had no need to continue, for Javert knew him too well now. Valjean had crossed some unseeable, unknowable boundary and meant to retreat. It was an injustice he could not allow, for Valjean to blame himself for anything. Javert wanted to hold him tightly then, but all he could seem to do was claw at Valjean’s back before restraining himself; he had done more than enough damage for a lifetime.

For a moment he thought he may speak again, tell Valjean to release him and forget the ordeal. However, when he made to open his mouth, the only thing that spilled out was an unrestrained sob, wild and gasping.

It was not the first time emotions had seized him so fully; when he had opened up his heart, it seemed that no one could halt its flow, least of all Javert. For years he had learned only to stow them away, tightly guarded and never meant for examination. To do so would be no better than treason. Now he knew nothing of how to close the floodgates, and each teary train of thought seemed to bring on hours of weeping only remedied by the dull medicine of sleep. It was an unfortunate matter that occurred more often than he would admit in the prolonged months after the fall. Since then, they had become more infrequent, fading like an unpleasant memory.

Valjean’s hands ambled over his back in circles, and the sensation only incensed it, like the knife buried in him was suddenly twisting. How he could handle him with such care was agonizing, to domesticate a beast meant only to shred and tear everything in sight. A mad beast at that, who now desired nothing but to tear itself to pieces. Was it howling coming out of his mouth, or the broken sob of a man? Javert could not hope to distinguish it, only feeling the piercing touch on his back that seemed not dissuaded nor afraid. Perhaps it was his own fear then, fear tinting his eyes red as he thought of all the many ways he could ruin what they had, how he could ruin Valjean by somehow convincing him that he was worthy of humanity, much less love.

It could have been minutes, hours before Javert came back to himself. Slowly they had reclined on the bed in that time, wrapped around one another like ivy climbs a trellis. Javert had hidden himself in Valjean’s collarbones, isolated in the darkness made by the scarce space between them. Unwelcome light came in suddenly as Valjean began to shift, bringing him to eye level. His expression was implacable—somewhere between resignation, discomfort, and pity. No, not quite pity, for there was a glint of recognition there.

“Javert,” he began. He was unsure, hesitating with whatever he meant to say, trailing fingers around the edge of Javert’s cheek. Try as he might, Javert could not quite look him in the eye for the reason that men cannot stare directly into the sun.

He paused, seemingly unable to continue. Javert knew he was attempting a conversation, something to sort out the pool of tears on the bedclothes, but it was just as arduous for him as it was for Javert. This was the same man whose first instinct at the onset of emotions was to sequester himself in the garden shed so that no one might see him weep. He was as quick to speak his mind as one might be to disturb a hornet’s nest. A necessary problem to approach, treacherous as it was.

Somehow he prevailed and stroked behind Javert’s ear as he spoke softly. “I understand it.”

At that, a dry, humorless laugh escaped Javert’s lips. “You stubbornly refuse to accept it,” he said. He swallowed, for his voice was tacky and hoarse from sobs. “But you are still deserving of it though.”

Valjean’s expression withered. It was a recurring argument at this point, Javert pushing against the concrete checkpoint that surrounded Valjean’s heart; it could only let compassion out and seemingly never let any in. Javert sighed deeply, reigning himself in. This was not the time to be on the offensive. Reticent as he was, he would make the effort to talk through it, an agreement they had come to in the times where simple touch was not enough.

“Do you recall,” Javert said, “my resignation.”

“Attempted resignation,” Valjean corrected quietly. There was no discomfort in his tone, but Javert knew it not entirely absent.

It was painful, he knew, to dredge up memories of the town; they spoke of it so little, keeping the past neatly tucked away where it could not disrupt the present. But it was the only way, he thought, to speak of the impossible weight on his chest. Though starkly naked, it felt as though he were stripping further as the words dripped out of him like obstinate leaks in a roof.

“You insisted I grant myself mercy, insisted I shake your hand. Even then.” He paused, taking a breath to steel himself. “No one had ever… you were the first to care for me in the slightest. Not my work, what I could do, but—well. And I refused to see it then, refused it when you let me live and I-“ He stopped, breath shaking.

Valjean petted at his hair, a thoughtful look spreading across his face. “Overwhelming,” he said. “To be loved.”

Javert stared at him, unable to answer. He could see in Valjean’s eyes that he could see directly through Javert, piercing eyes all too knowing. He could feel silent tears coming down his face, but he could still master his voice as he spoke.

“I can’t even manage to accept what you give—how you could feel anything for me is- God, Valjean.” Valjean’s hand had begun to wipe away some of the errant tears, tucking his hair behind his ear. At his words, the hand fell.

“Should I stop?”

“No- I-“ Javert breathed. “I do not wish to hurt you, making all this fuss over nothing.”

“This is not nothing,” Valjean said. His hand now rested on the side of Javert’s head, almost absentmindedly rubbing with his thumb at the space between his ear and his jaw. A place Valjean had found he most enjoyed. “And I am not hurt. When I say I understand it, know that I mean what I say.”

Valjean sighed with a weariness betraying his age, worn down in all his years. Most times, he still seemed youthful, carrying the air of a man still in his prime. Others, a man tired beyond comprehension peered at him, and Javert wondered how Valjean could stand to look at him.

“I am no better—let me finish,” he said, silencing the oncoming objection from Javert. “I know I am no better in these matters. I am still not sure I deserve what I have; I feel I have no right to any of it... even if you tell me otherwise each day. But you would still tell me, I assume.”

“…You would be correct.”

“And I will tell you the same,” Valjean said.

He looked at him then, achingly, still softly applying pressure to the edge of his jaw. His expression lingered as if there was nothing else in the world worth gazing at, difficult as it was to manage a man with a heart so new. Javert suppressed the urge to scream, not knowing another way to release the cacophony in his mind; he found he could not, exhaustion claiming him instead as his hand gently carded through Valjean’s white curls.

“How is this to work?” he said. “How can anything feel so easy and so—so-“ his voice broke, “impossible?”

“Hearts are troublesome, I have found,” Valjean answered. A sad smile came across Valjean’s features, and Javert wanted nothing more than to erase it, replace it with one of those smiles that radiated from him like steady warmth from the afternoon sun. Instead pain sat on his brow like a stain, reminding Javert of the burden it surely was to love him.

“I’m sorry,” Javert said, cradling Valjean’s cheek as tears pricked at the edge of his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said as he pulled Valjean towards him, whispering into his neck. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as Valjean brought their lips together. He said it again, one apology after another until he drifted, slow as the sun setting, into sleep. Even in his dreams he could still hear himself murmuring reparations, permanently situated on his knees before a blinding, heavenly light.

* * *

The kiss on his cheek was quick, landing briefly and fluttering off like a butterfly. Valjean had leaned in behind him, for Javert was bent in concentration over the shirt he was mending for him. Though, he would not the needle slip from his fingers as Valjean, just as swiftly, whispered an “I love you,” in his ear. And he was off then, setting to work on the slow reorganization of his bookcases.

Javert did not shift in the slightest, but he allowed his eyes to look upward and follow Valjean’s path across the room. He gave no hesitant glances back, gave no indication of worry for Javert’s sake as he walked. Perhaps he should have; it was the first time he voiced such a sentiment since the first disastrous attempt.

While Valjean had not spoken it, Javert could nevertheless feel his care; how could he not? Tenderness emanated from him, natural as the green glow of springtime. The week before, the day before, the kiss would have no such accompaniment, and it was just as well. His touches were no less loving, his kisses no less sweet. Valjean had tactfully skirted around the word itself, sensitive to the barbs of a new, perilous flower. But even a poisonous thorn could not dissuade a caretaker like Valjean. At times he was passive, to be sure, but his eyes often held the fire of a man determined to raise the dead when he saw fit. It seemed Javert was such a cause.

Oddly, the thought did not overwhelm him as he watched Valjean crouch over a stack of books, left to wait from his last effort at the task. It would be disingenuous to say his breath had not caught, that his heart had not leapt momentarily in his chest, that some dangerous constriction had not risen in his throat. The heat had come alight under him, but it did not scald. It tempered Javert, leaving him with a strange sense of pleasant warmth in his breast.

Quietly he looked back to Valjean’s shirt, contemplating the unfinished, neat line of needlework. When it was finished, Valjean would thank him and wear it again with pride. Every day Javert would be able to see it, the small way he was able to add ease and happiness into Valjean’s life. Perhaps, if he mended enough shirts, made him smile with enough kisses, he could feel deserving of it all.

For now, he would finish the patch, weaving small, decisive stitches; they were made all the more loving with the fondness making its home in him, a creaking house finally settling.


End file.
